Disclaimer: Final Fantasy VII and its characters belong to Square Enix and many others. Sadly, I'm not one of them.

Revised and edited January 7, 2007.
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Metathesiophobia or, Moving Forward
By Lady Calliope

Part Fourteen: Haphephobia

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"Truth." How many is that for him? Eight? Nine?

While trying to come up with a good truth to ask, I refill his shot glass—he's always been a vodka person at heart like me. Well, back when I could still drink, that is. His eyes seem to swim around the room a little, like he can't quite focus on one thing for more than a few seconds. Perhaps he's not holding out as long as I originally guessed he would.

Maybe it's time to ask—he did pick truth. And after all, should it prove embarrassing, I can blame my actions on the copious amounts of seltzer water I've been drinking, right? Somehow that sounds even worse when I put it in words. Still, here goes nothing.

"Why…why don't you ever touch me?"

Suddenly his pupils are much sharper than they have any right to be. "What?"

Why do I feel like I've just said one of the most dangerous things I could ever possibly say? "I'm asking why you never touch me anymore. You just…stopped. A few years ago. No hugs, no handshakes, hell, not even a slap on the shoulder after a good fight! I just want to know—"

"I can't answer that."

Now it's my turn to narrow my eyes. "Can't or won't?"

"You're shitfaced, Tifa. You don't know what you're saying." Obviously, even though he's not as drunk as I thought, he's still not on the safe side of sober.

"I'm drinking water, remember? I know perfectly well what I'm saying!"

"No, you don't." He mutters the next so quietly I nearly miss it. "If you did you wouldn't ask me."

What? "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Vaguely I realize that my language is much more forceful and crass than I normally allow. I sound more like him.

He's stone silent and more guarded than I've ever seen him. Something in me softens a little at the look in his eyes: it almost looks like betrayal but that doesn't make any sense. "Look, I'm sorry, it's just…" Headless of consequence I reach across the table and take his hand. I don't know why I'm so intent on making him understand in this moment, but something tells me that if I don't finish what I started I'll have one less regular in my bar. "I miss you. It's like there's a whole side of you that I can't reach, that's gone where I can't follow."

His focus is on our hands. Since this started I've never tried to bridge the physical gap. And just as I think I'm getting through to him—finally!—he tries to jerk his hand back. My combat reflexes have always been a touch faster, though.

"Let go, Tif." His voice is absolute winter.

"No!" Why can't he just tell me?

"Why do you wanna know so damn bad?" He's almost shouting.

"Dammit, Cid, you know everything about me!" I grip his fingers harder. "You know I'm afraid of marionettes. You know it embarrasses me when I come out of a fight without so much as a scratch. You know Marlene was the first person to ever get me flowers. Hell, you're the only one besides my fucking doctor that knows I'm pregnant!" I hadn't meant to yell that last bit and my voice dips of its own accord. "Why? Why can't you do the same for me? You're the closest thing I have to a best friend these days and—"

He pulls away with such force it actually hurts my arm a little—I'm faster but he'll always be stronger. His face is anything but closed now: he's more furious than I ever thought him capable. I'd be terrified if I couldn't tell that the anger was directed internally and not at me. "You really want to know why, Tifa? You really want to know why I never touch you?" His voice is a hurricane now, uncontrollable and demanding.

"Because if I ever did I wouldn't be able to stop!" My eyes widen so quickly it stings. "Because if I so much as shake your hand I won't be able to pull away until all you could remember and scream was my name, until you forgot all about that fucking bastard and let me have all of you!"

Absently I realize he's almost eloquent when he's in a rage. "What? But—"

"No!" He cuts me off like a blade. "You asked for the truth so here it is. All of it!" He's never sneered at me before, ever. "The whole reason I agreed to head the Space Program was so I could live here. Shera left me because she figured out this—" he gestures between us—"before I even fucking bothered to look beyond the surface. I come here every night for you, so I can make sure no guy you don't want ever touches you. Everything is you!"

Out of breath, he sits panting like a man hanging to the edge of a cliff by one hand. I'm thinking a million things but only one comes out in a whisper. "When?"

He doesn't even hesitate. "Since that time on the airship when we dropped and I held you up with my hand." So specific and yet I recall every detail like a movie. "I didn't like the way it made me feel. Hell, it scared the shit out of me."

Now he sounds more like the gruff pilot I knew before I started this stupid game. How the hell do I respond to this? He knows damn well about Cloud and I! "Cid…I just…I don't know—"

"I know what you're going to say. Don't even bother." A snort. "I'm not stupid enough to think that I can stick around after…" he stops, sighs, and stands up. He's running. "I'll still visit sometimes. And I'll be there when the kid's born whether you want me there or not."

"Cid—"

"It's better this way, Tif." If ever there was someone trying to convince himself. "I've been acting a goddamned fool all this time. It's time I stop kidding myself."

As he gathers his coat and heads to the front entrance I briefly think of following him, kissing him, and telling him to stay, telling him he doesn't know me as well as he thinks.

"Be well." It sounds like a plea and I take a small step forward. Then he looks at me with those eyes like blown glass and I know I can't. I want to kiss him, I want to make him stay, but I don't know if I can follow that path to its conclusion beyond tonight.

My hand strays to my stomach.

I hear a biting wind, the click of the door, and then silence. My body seems to remember what a shredded heart feels like from a different time and a different leaving. I try to push away the pressing forces of similarity that assault and stifle. I'm too busy trying to understand my own unexpected uncertainty at the idea, the prospect of blonde hair.

And blue eyes.